Boxless
I search for boxes.
Everywhere I go —
corners, edges, lines, shapes.
Is this mine?
I slip inside, curl up,
press my back to the walls,
breathe in the temporary comfort of containment.
But soon, something aches.
The shape is wrong.
The air is stale.
I stretch my limbs,
and the walls press back.
This is not my box.
I crawl out,
empty again,
lost in the open air,
asking:
Is there a box for me?
I wander through fields,
touching the earth,
asking the wind if it knows my shape.
The trees do not answer,
but the birds understand —
I hear their songs of freedom,
melodies that do not need cages.
I envy their flight.
But I am bound,
trapped between passion and silence,
fierce behind a pen,
feral behind a keyboard.
In words, I roar,
I rage,
I become storms and wildfires,
a predator unafraid.
But in the flesh, I shrink.
I cower beneath glances,
pull shadows over my face,
my voice a trembling leaf.
Do not look at me —
I do not have a face.
Only fragments,
pieces scattered,
never whole.
What is this passion for,
if no one hears it?
If my words dissolve like mist?
I scream into the page,
a wolf howling at a paper moon,
but the world sleeps through my cries.
I belong to the wild —
the lost creatures, the untamed winds,
the spaces where nothing needs a name.
I do not fit in frames or labels,
do not thrive in boxes,
I cannot breathe in expectations.
I am passion and emptiness,
everything and nothing.
I seek form,
but find only fog.
Boxless, faceless,
but burning.
I will not be caged.
I will not be tamed.
I am here,
a whisper in the trees,
a shadow on the wind,
a voice you will feel
Even if you never see me.